


Clear Eyed

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Molly Hooper, Dorks in Love, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Fresh Start, Look At Your Life Look At Your Choices, Moving On, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Relationships, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock in Denial, right in the feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-27 21:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10816830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: He's being ridiculous, he tells himself. After all, the likeness isn't particularly striking, once the body's turned over... Sherlock Holmes comes face to face with his feelings about Molly Hooper and, of course, he handles it *so* well... Post S4, slow burn, POV of both Molly and Sherlock.





	1. Seeing Double

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

**~ Seeing Double ~**

* * *

_He's being ridiculous_ , he tells himself.

It's sentiment, nothing more, and it's playing with his senses. Knocking him off balance- Which is a thing not to be borne.

_After all, the likeness isn't particularly striking, once the body's turned over._

And if the hands are the same size, the nails cut to the same degree of shortness, then what of it? If the hair is of a similar colour and style as that she favours, that's still no excuse for this ridiculous, insipid... mawkishness which is scratching at his rib-cage. His chest. _His heart._

Many women favour bright colours in their clothes, he tells himself.

Many woman are short- statistically speaking British women are highly likely to be under 5 foot, in fact.

He reminds himself of this sharply.

Many women work alone in laboratory conditions, Sherlock thinks, the better to get through their work without the prying eyes of the cretinous looking over their shoulders (or down their blouses) and that being the case, the sight of the corpse before him, murdered in her own lab, should mean little to him.

 _It's not_ _ **her**_ , he reminds himself savagely. _It's not._

"Get a hold on yourself, man," he mutters to himself, and then has the displeasure of seeing Lestrade look at him and wince in pity. Make a move towards him. He doesn't know about Sherrinford, but he knows about the fallout.

Without a word Sherlock turns away and tries to move towards the corpse. He needs a closer look and that will require his getting his bloody act together, thank you very much. This frivolousness must stop. It must end. He will end it, even if it feels like it's killing him.

Nevertheless he finds himself striding out before he gets within even a foot of the corpse, muttering about needing some air and not having eaten even as the door swings shut behind him.

He stalks outside, pulls out a cigarette and lights it.

 _The nicotine will be calming,_ he thinks. _The nicotine will make everything ok._

He closes his eyes to savour the flavour and as he does _she_ appears behind them. Molly. His Molly. The woman Eurus made him hurt. The woman he hasn't spoken to in a month. The woman who is resolutely not lying dead in that lab, despite what his mind may be trying to trick him into seeing.

At the thought he snarls to himself, the enjoyment of the cigarette completely destroyed by the reminder of who he's missing. What he's lost. "Bloody Eurus!" he mutters and as he does he hears footfalls behind him.

He doesn't need to turn around to know who it is.

"Fuck off," he says without looking at her.

His tone is cheerful. Challenging.

He gets a snicker in response.

"Doesn't work on me," Sally Donovan says, one head cocked to the side, a distinctly unimpressed look in her eye. "Told the guv' not to call you in when I saw the vic, but he didn't listen." She shakes her head to herself. Rolls her eyes. "He didn't see the resemblance but you do, don't you?"

She shakes her head. "Bloody uncanny, how much it looks like Hoop-"

Sherlock draws himself up to his full- impressive- height. Glowers down at her.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he snaps, and this time Donovan barks in laughter.

"Course you don't," she bites out. "Perish the thought." And she turns on her heel, walks back towards the exit.

Sherlock tells himself he feels no relief at her leaving, but then-

"Life's short," Donovan says, not looking at him. "Your mate John can probably tell you about that. Most of us coppers can tell you that too. So don't be a moron just for the sake of being windswept and interesting, yeah?"

Again that sharp laugh.

"Don't be alone, just for the sake of being right- Even you're not that thick."

And with that she's gone. Leaving Sherlock behind with his ruined nicotine hit and his perilous, unwelcome, entirely ridiculous thoughts. Thoughts of Molly. Thoughts of the future. Thoughts of the hole which her absence seems to have left in his life. He pictures the corpse he's just viewed, the woman who looks so much like his friend that it's making him feel physically ill, and he feels a knot of... something settle in his chest. It's something visceral. Something painful.

It makes his breath tangle into knots and his chest ache and he tells himself he has no idea why- But he knows that's a lie.

Rather than think about it anymore though, he squares his shoulders, heads back inside. This time he manages to examine the body and give Lestrade at least some pertinent details before he makes his retreat. He claims an (entirely fictitious) call from Mycroft and hurries back to Baker Street- _He can feel Donovan's eyes on him the whole way there-_

That night he dreams of Molly in her cherry-print cardigan.

He dreams of her lying as he saw that woman today lying, spread-eagled and bleeding and bereft of life...

* * *

Molly Hooper opens her eyes to find Sherlock Holmes in her bed, for the first time in years. His arms are locked themselves tightly around her waist, and he's holding her to him. Nuzzling into her hair.

"Please," he says softly. "Please, let me stay."

She closes her eyes in pain, wondering how she's going to sleep now, but even as she does so she's already sliding back into slumber, her fingers threaded through his and his deep, even breathing whispering against her ear.

* * *

He won't be there when she wakes up again.

She won't be living there, the next time he breaks in.


	2. First Sight

_Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to whenIsayrunrun, Icecat62, MetricJenn, deby, devilgrrl, Sundance201, 3seconds, SerafineSnape, OhAine, Bella_Cuore, Westwinder and Bodhicitta- Hope you enjoy this. There may be a smutty part three, I haven't decided yet..._

* * *

**~ First Sight ~**

* * *

_She's being ridiculous_ , she tells herself.

_It's sheer ludicrousness, nothing more, to see Sherlock in the shape of a waiter._

_A fellow diner._

_A maitre d._

Though she mat think that however, Molly still finds herself reaching for her wine and taking a fortifying sip.

As she does so she lets her eyes scan over the restaurant, waiting for Jonathan to return to her.

Six months she's been gone from London, she reminds herself. Six months she's been living in Edinburgh. If he wanted to follow her here, he would have. If he wanted to talk to her after that awful night at hers, he'd have found a way. He's Sherlock Holmes, for God's sake! The cleverest man in all the world. The genius to end geniuses. And he's a detective; He knows how to find people. He'd know how to find her.

 _The fact that he hasn't even tried tells her everything she needs to know about their relationship_ , she reminds herself forcefully.

It's over.

Dead.

_She herself had ended it: She couldn't bear to spend another minute, let alone another year, waiting for him._

And it had been for the best. After Eurus, and that horrible experience on the phone, after his sliding into her bed and wrapping himself around her that night, holding on to her so tightly she'd thought her heart would break... After all that, she'd had to let go. She'd had to move on.

_It had been a matter of self-preservation._

As she thinks this she takes another sip of her wine and cranes her neck. Looks towards the toilets,, wondering where her date has gotten to...

"He's had an unexpected phone call," a familiar voice says behind her.

She stops- No, she freezes.

The hairs on the back of her neck rise and her heart starts to pound like a drum in her chest.

There is a concurrent desire to either scream or swear.

Through some unbelievable force of will she manages to put her wine glass onto the table before she drops it. Manages to make herself turn and look at him.

He's different than she remembers. Leaner. Paler. _Older_.

Those quicksilver eyes go to hers, catch her gaze, and though she knows that she should look away, she finds she can't. _She' s never been able to_. Unsmiling, Sherlock moves until he's standing before her, his gaze impenetrable. His mouth set in a straight, thin line. He stares down at her- _so grave, so silent_ \- and despite herself Molly manages to tip her chin up. Cock a defiant eyebrow.

 _She has nothing to be sorry for_ , she reminds herself.

 _She did what was best for her after years spent nearly killing herself doing what was best for him_.

At seeing her mulish expression Sherlock rolls his eyes heavenward before sighing impatiently and moving closer. Hunkering down before her. On his haunches, they're eye to eye but before she can say as much he reaches out. Takes both her hands from her lap and brings them to rest between his. The heat of his fingers makes her shiver and she tells herself not to think about it.

He notices though, damn him, for his own eyebrow cocks, slight amusement warming his expression.

Immediately Molly wants to smack him.

"I see the physical reaction to me is as strong as ever," he says wryly. Molly opens her mouth to tell him where exactly he can stick his option of her "physical reactions," but before she can speak his expression sobers. Darkens.

He looks down at their joined hands and his brow furrows; It's that look he gets when he doesn't know how to put into words what he wants to say and Molly hates that it still makes her heart ache.

"I'm not sorry," he says softly, and it's all Molly can do not to smack him again.

 _ **Of course**_ _he's not sorry_ , she reminds herself savagely. _He never bloody is._

"I'm not sorry I crawled into your bed," he continues quietly. "I'm not sorry I asked to stay." Molly can feel tears pricking at her eyes as he speaks and she hates it, she hates that even after all this time he can do this to her.

 _Even after all this time, it's not the physical reaction to him that endangers her the most_.

"Why are you saying this to me?" she manages to grind out through clenched teeth and at that Sherlock's eyes flash up to hers. For a moment he looks genuinely flummoxed and then clarity descends. She sees it in him.

"I'm trying to apologise," he says softly.

Molly glares at him. "By telling me you're not sorry?"

Again that confused, flummoxed look appears, again he works through it. "I'm not sorry for the things I've done with you that were pleasant," he says slowly. "I'm trying to get to an apology for the things I've done which were a bit ... Not Good, as John would say."

"You broke my heart," she snaps.

"You broke mine," he responds without hesitation.

This time it's her turn to frown. To not understand. She looks at him and she can see him willing her to get something, something she has no idea of. (She never has any idea where he's concerned.)

"What are you talking about?" she asks more softly, and at this some of the tension goes out of his shoulders. The grip on her hands- so harsh a moment ago- gentles.

"I- I meant to tell you," he says softly. His voice is halting. Uncertain. "I always thought... I always thought you'd be there. I always thought you'd be around when I finally knew what I wanted, and how I felt."

He shakes his head in frustration. Looks down, again, at their joined hands.

Molly has to lean in closer, to hear his next words.

"It was foolish, but..." He sighs. "That night I came to you, that night I was going to tell you... I wanted to tell you..." Again he looks frustrated. Again he shakes his head. "But then I woke up the next morning and I just, I just couldn't... "

"Couldn't what?" Though the words are harsh, her tone is soft.

In all her years of knowing Sherlock, she's never seen him like this.

His eyes, when they look at her, are very clear and very certain.

It feels almost like being under a microscope, to be seen- so clearly as that.

"I was going to tell you that I cared about you," he says, and the words are almost inaudible. "I was going to tell you... I was going to tell you that it wasn't a lie, what I said in front of Eurus. I wasn't a lie when I said I loved you.

"I'd spent the morning trying to get a picture out of my head, a picture of a murder victim who looked so much like you that it made me physically retch, and yet, when I woke up next to you- when I saw you, lying there perfect and, and Mollyish- I couldn't bring myself to do it. I couldn't bring myself to be brave."

He shakes his head to himself again. "So I told myself I'd be brave for you. I'd let you go- I'd give you that, at least-"

She doesn't understand. "So you... You knew where I was, what I was doing..?"

He looks at her. "I knew that you were doing well without me." The words seem hard for him to say. "I always knew you'd do well without me."

This is added in an undertone.

"And so what changed?"

At this he looks away, flinches. Hunches in on himself. He's gone somewhere inside his head, she can see that, but she doesn't think it's somewhere pleasant.

Without her quite deciding to do it, she curls her fingers through his.

"That murder victim I mentioned?" he says quietly. "The one who looked like you? I was called as a witness by the CPS today and I had to look at those photos of the crime scene. I had to see it again.

"And as I looked at them, all I could think was- She's not dead, Sherlock. She's still alive. Your Molly's still alive, but she won't always be, and neither will you. Bravery is bollocks, when it's an excuse to not be honest. It's nonsense, when it's just a way to protect yourself from someone you love."

He licks his lips. Leans in closer to her. There's a light in his eyes now. A beautiful light, one Molly has to admit she's missed.

"So I got on the first train here," he's saying, "and I, I tracked you down... I knew you had a date but I don't- No, I _won't_ let that stand in my way.

I won't let you go, just because I wasn't brave once. Because I was an idiot."

By the time he's gotten to the end of this little tirade Molly's speechless. Shocked. She knows her jaw's hanging open but she can't seem to pop it shut.

"So you..?" She gestures faintly, trying to encompass all he's said in a simple wave of her hand.

Unsurprisingly, perhaps, she feels she is unsuccessful.

"I want you," he says, and now his voice is strong. Sure. "I want you. I want you to be brave with."

His certainty falters.

"That is, if you still want me?"

And he dips his head. Breaks eye contact entirely. Though his hands are still twined through hers, she can't h but feel that he's leaving things up to her. Molly stares at him. Tries to corral her flustered emotions. She knows that what she's feeling is more than likely shock, as well as disbelief. Anger. She knows that she's been hurt by Sherlock Holmes before. She's been hurt more times than she can count. _But still..._

He's here, and he says he wants her.

He's here, and he says she's the one.

If she says no, she'll be saying no because of her pride, not her heart, she's certain of that- So which will win out? Her pride, or her heart?

_That's never really been a competition, she knows._

"I'm not moving back to London," she says, her voice a little shaky, and he nods.

"I wouldn't expect it," he says softly. "You've a life here, and a home. An excellent position. Excellent prospects.

"But I can commute..?" She nods and he smiles, his first true smile of the evening. "You're willing to try?" he asks, and she nods again.

This time his smile becomes a grin.

"I loved you from the moment I set eyes on you, Sherlock," she says quietly. "Seems a pity not to try and make something of that, even if it's an utter hames of things."

When her date returns from his call she apologises, tells him she's been called away. Tells him she'll not be back in touch again, that something's come up.

Sherlock walks her home, his hand in hers, and when she gets there she opens the door. Invites him in.

This time, when she wakes up the next morning he's still there.

* * *

There are things to be sorted out, decisions to be made. She doesn't know where this is going, not with any sort of clarity. But in the early morning light his smile is welcome.

"Let's be brave together," he says, and to that she can heartily agree.


End file.
